Icarus II: The Crew Journals
by Punctuator
Summary: Affectionate if blatantly irreverent examination of the thoughts and feelings of the brave crew of the Icarus II. Written well before the film's release. With apologies to jarheads, geeks, space botanists, and astronauts everywhere....


**A/N:** Wrote these about a year and a bit ago, well in advance of Sunshine's North American release, right when the first video clips and photos were leaking onto the 'net. So they're really "first impression" stuff-- and are certainly not meant to be taken seriously. Have fun!

**ICARUS II: THE CREW JOURNALS**

**MY JOURNAL** by MACE

My therapist, he says I should keep a journal. Back on Earth he tells me this, before we take off. Not right before we take off, you know I didn't mean that, it's not like he's at the launch station holding my hand like I'm some kind of girly man (that's Capa's job. The girly man thing, not the hand holding thing, no guy holds my hand, but more on Capa later, and not like he's my sissy, I'm not that kind of guy either), but he says I have control issues. My therapist. Control issues, he says. Me. The dick. Not even like he's really my therapist, I didn't hire him, the agency said we all should talk to him one on one before we take off because being in space this long can make you nuts. Like they know. The dicks. Him too. The therapist, not Capa. But more on him later. Capa.

I didn't even know what to write in this thing until one day, one day when we're like something like a month out, and Capa one day he says at breakfast you know, real quiet like he always does, like he's some kind of damn android with its volume broke, all Look at me folks, I'm Mr. Spock, he says to our resident hot chick Cassie (and not like you're ever gonna read this and I'd break your face if you did, Capa you nerd), "Wonder how Mace is doing with his journal," and both of 'em giggle like it's junior high. Like I couldn't hear 'em. So I think, man I should bust his skinny face right now and that it would be funny as hell and he'd have it coming, too, but then Corazon looks at me like she's gonna beat my ass if I do (like she did last week but more on that later), so I think I'll show 'em. I'll show 'em all. You see that word up there? That word resident? That's like almost four syl-- sill-- parts in that word so up yours Capa. Like your dumb bomb. This is the last damn mission I take where they put the smart guy in charge of the payload. Cause if that bomb wasn't your baby Capa, I'd airmail your skinny ass home. What's more, you'd tell me Mace, there isn't any air in space ha ha (like I didn't already know that you scrawny geek I was there when Harvey went out and checked like I told him to), and then I'd beat your skinny ass first. Corazon or no Corazon. Man that chick is hot too.

So here's my journal. Skipped a couple days here and there, sue me.

**Stardate XXXX-1** I've always wanted to write Stardate something. Actually I've always wanted to say it out loud-- you know Captain's log, Stardate something-- but I better not cause if Capa hears me he'll say something smartassy and I'll have to stuff him back in the suit locker like last week, but more on that later. Anyway Kaneda's the captain not me grrr bet he says Captain's log, Stardate something all the time when we're not around, I bet it's even in his contract that he can say it any damn time he wants. Today we had a team meeting. Crew meeting. Corazon and Capa they hog the table like always. Like they're all, Look at us we're the smart people we get to talk all the damn time. So what they said was kinda like

Corazon: You are hogging my resources with your bomb Capa my plants will wilt and we'll, like, die. (I put that like in there for a dramatic pause, okay?)

Capa: If you don't let me hog all your resources (that's another big word Capa, see, right there) my bomb will wilt and the earth will, like, die so there hot beyotch. And then Corazon beat his ass right there in the meeting.

No. No she didn't. Not really. Ha ha ha. Really had you there for a minute huh?

So the meeting it goes on and Trey the dope he has to ask again, like he always does like he's dumb or something, Hey Capa tell us again How does your bomb work? But then you know, I see him kinda laugh after he says it, real quiet, and then I know he's yanking Capa's chain and then I kinda laugh too and so does Harvey and Capa doesn't dare say shit to us on it cause we'll hang him upside down in the garbage chute like we did last week but more on that later and so he has to tell us. And I can tell Kaneda is mad as hell at Trey for asking and at us too, and Searle wants to knock all our heads together, and Corazon she's pissed cause Trey didn't ask her how her plant stuff works (he does that on our meetings Monday and Wednesday and today's Thursday so it's Capa's day).

So Capa he starts telling us again how his bomb works, and every word out of his fat head is like the biggest word in the damn world like always, like My bomb big word big word big word neutron bigger word bigger bigger word fission big big big word sun, and pretty soon I'm like with my hand making Blah blah blah ooh I'm Capa look at me I'm the smart guy talking motions, and Trey he like snores, and Kaneda says, Meeting adjourned like he always does now before Capa starts crying like a sissy ooh boo hoo, no one understands my bomb and Cassie and Corazon beat our asses like last week, but more on that later.

Tomorrow: more journal unless Capa's bomb is broke and blows us up first.

* * *

**JOURNAL**/Cassie 

I drive the ship, okay?

No tips, no bonuses, no nothing. Well, there is **one** bonus-- No: not going there. Why am I not going there? Because Mace, who is _not_ the "bonus," will find this and read it. Like he's probably doing right now.

YES, YOU, MACE. PUT MY DAMN JOURNAL DOWN. NOW.

NO. NOT ON THE FLOOR. PICK IT UP AND PUT IT BACK IN MY LOCKER. WHERE YOU FOUND IT, YOU CREEP.

So I drive the ship. Beats driving a cab, I guess. Just wish I could've slapped another coat of wax on this thing before we left. Been picking up dust all the way in. Of course, if we ever take a hit from anything bigger than a golf ball, all the Zymol in the solar system won't help. That shrink we saw before we left, I said to him, "You think my collision insurance covers meteors?" And he does this hollow little "Heh" thing, like he's thinking _As if you're coming back_. I mean, yes, I know it was a dumb thing to say, but I always thought shrinks were supposed to be supportive. Who am I kidding? This close to the sun, Zymol would just melt anyway.

MACE: ZYMOL IS A KIND OF WAX. PUT. THE JOURNAL. BACK.

Wonder if Capa could help me rig a booby trap for this thing. Nothing too fatal, understand: I'm not psychopathic-- yet ("Just give it time!" Dr. Shrink might have said, ha ha), but I'm getting really sick and tired of not writing about

the _real_ bonus on this trip

and of FINDING GRANOLA CRUMBS IN MY DAMN JOURNAL. MACE: GO AWAY!!! GO READ CORAZON'S JOURNAL.

Better go now. Capa's still upside-down in the garbage chute. Last time we forgot about him for nearly six hours. Corazon and I pulled him out after we heard him snoring. Not that he snores all the

MACE: GONE. YOU ARE **SO** GONE.

Anyway, I drive the ship. Have to get Capa out of the chute. And pound Mace. That'll be poetic justice, right?

Later.

* * *

**JOURNALISTIC EXPOSTULATIONS, PERSONAL,** by Capa 

The woman is insane.

To specify: re: "woman": Corazon. To specify further: re: "woman": re: subcategory ("exquisite") "not insane": Cassie. (Reaction, involuntary, to mention of subject in category "woman," subcategory "not insane": tingling in abdominal area, specifically stomach, unascribable to indigestion, accompanied by languid release of breath (reference: dictionary entry "sigh").)

To expostulate: The woman is insane. We all will be there eventually; she has merely preceded us. Exemplar re: Corazon's insanity:

(Understand: I speak re: Corazon's burgeoning madness with the greatest respect. Specifically, with the greatest respect for her skill in (a) physical combat (the woman _does_ know karate, as it turns out, as well as judo, hopkido, kung fu, kickboxing, and a particularly nasty form of full-contact Pilates) and (b) assisting this humble journal-keeper in extricating himself from less-habitable areas of the ship into which certain ruffians see fit to insert him (note re: ambiguity of identification of said ruffians: one could observe, were one so inclined, that their leader bears a name that rhymes with approximately one-hundred percent precision with the word FACE).)

To continue re: madhouse exemplars. Today: confronted Corazon in Oxygen Garden.

Purpose of confrontation: To discuss Corazon's use of ship's power for heating greenhouse (read: for pampering silly weeds).

Form of confrontation: Polite discourse.

Argument regarding choice of confrontational form: Incident, as witnessed Saturday a.m., involving 1. last remaining cup of Apple Jacks; 2. Harvey purloining said cup of Apple Jacks, aforementioned cereal being Dr. Corazon's favorite; 2.a. with comment "Guess it's Cheerios for you, sweet cheeks"; with 3. resulting demonstration of fighting skills (appearing to combine hopkido and full-contact Pilates, aforementioned) on part of Dr. Corazon; resulting in 4. relinquishment of said last remaining cup of Apple Jacks from Harvey to Corazon; with 4.a. comment (from Dr. Corazon to Mr. Harvey) "(Bleep) your Cheerios and the horse they rode in on, nancy-boy"; culminating in 5. visit to sick bay (non-terminal) on part of Mr. Harvey. End argument.

Form of expostulation re: incident illustrating Corazon's madness: brief comments in narrative form (brevity being, of course, the soul of wit and of clarity as well). To proceed:

Tuesday morning 0930 hours:

1. Entered Oxygen Garden by way of doors. (To counter-expostulate: Not by way of wall, which would pose a problem both in terms of (a) this journal-keeper's physical density and (b) his potential and/or necessary velocity-- said computations available, of course, upon request, Mace.)

2. Espied Dr. Corazon directly ahead, her torso and head inclined toward a tomato plant. (Read (for those who tend toward the "poetic"): She was leaning over the Beefsteak.)

3. Heard Dr. Corazon address said tomato plant as follows: "Izzums my boo-boo BUM-kins!"

4. Politely (read: completely without disdain) spoke as follows: "Dr. Corazon--?"

5. Noted (with careful blend of intellectual acuity and horror) Dr. Corazon's reply, as addressed to aforementioned tomato plant: "Bum-kins! You CAN talk--!"

6. Essayed further attempt at contact, to wit: "Dr. Corazon, it's Dr. Capa. May I speak to you?"

7. Observed a. Dr. Corazon peering closely at base of tomato plant (possibly to ascertain whether a miniature of myself (shrunken, perhaps, by the radiation bombarding the ship) had taken refuge beneath the lush foliage of said Beefsteak); b. Dr. Corazon noting, through use of peripheral portion of vision, my surveillance of her and the tomato; with c. reaction as follows: Dr. Corazon (1) straightening at the waist whilst (2) assuming a facial expression of great inscrutability and sobriety (which said expression makes her, truth be told, the terror of poker night aboard ship).

8. Presented argument, as outlined briefly thus: "You (that is to say, 'You, Dr. Corazon') are squandering for your plants resources better suited, if not essential, to the service and proper functioning of the solar re-ignition device (that is to say, 'my bomb')."

9. Received response from Dr. Corazon as follows: "Well, howzabout you and your bomb catch the next (bleep)ing bus, buttercup?"

10. Retired to hallway outside Oxygen Garden to contemplate (a) Dr. Corazon's professional suggestion and (b) the ramifications of what I had observed prior to our chat.

Regarding: said observations; an explanation, by way of example, of improper (read: plain crazy) manner of addressing one's work: I would never stoop, either asleep or in a waking dream-state, to referring to Big Mister Boom-Boom (that is to say, the solar re-ignition device) as "izzums my boo-boo bum-kins," "moody-doody big badoodies," "mattie-patattie doopie-doozies," or "bunny-wunny bun-kins," all being terms Dr. Corazon has used to address her plants. (The fourth, I note, is most alarming, as it indicates our resident botanist's growing inability to distinguish between the animal and plant kingdoms.)

Course of action, immediate: Discuss (with great professional tact, of course) my findings regarding our resident nutter (i.e., botanist) with subject (as noted well above) category "woman," subcategory "not insane." Possibly in an attitude of recumbency, if she be so inclined (see: dictionary entry "pun"). With a languid release of breath, or several, to follow. To end up, no doubt and nevertheless, stuffed in the suit locker at some point in the evening.

Which-- still-- provides room enough for two. And thus with a word I sigh.

* * *

**PERSONAL JOURNAL,** by Corazon 

He caught me talking to the tomatoes. _Talking to the tomatoes_.

And I could see it in his face-- not that it's ever easy, reading Dr. Capa's face: he has eyes like the photographic negative of a shark's eyes-- he thinks I'm nuts. Or worse: not competent. Like he never talks to his stupid bomb. I've heard him SING to that stupid bomb. "Singin' in the Rain." He was _crooning_ it. TO A POOL OF DARK MATTER. And I'M nuts?!?

I almost wish he'd caught me coming out of the shower instead.

Wait. No: **wait**. No no no. I can't believe I said that--

And he never _said_ I was nuts. Dr. Capa is a gentleman; he'd never say such a thing. _Think_ it very loudly? Yes. _Say_ it? Out loud? To one of the six people on this ship who could rearrange the DNA in his face in a fair fight? Not bloody likely.

There. I feel better. I do. But I still wish he'd caught me coming out of the shower inste--

I'm not very good at this. Journaling. The nut wrangler who spoke to us before we left said we should use our journals to express our thoughts and feelings-- well, there go Mace and Capa right there-- and, frankly, I'm stuck. It's space. Except for the huge burning ball of gas directly in front of us, it's very dark. It's boring. My professional log I keep separately--

But there was one thing-- Yesterday, after the meeting (and it was Friday, so Team Numbnuts asked me about my plants), Harvey tried hitting on me. Never mind the specifics: let's just say, as Dr. Capa might, it was "borderline verbal with Neolithic overtones." So I said:

"Harvey, how high is up?"

He said: "In space?"

I said: "Of course in space."

"I'll ask Mace," said Harvey.

I left him to it. With any luck, they're still outside with the tape measure. Think I'll go listen to Dr. Capa not sing to his bomb. Saturday's usually his "hits of the eighties" day.

After I check on Boo-Boo Bum-kins and the other plants, of course.

* * *

Searle/**PERSONAL LOG**

We're doomed.

By that I don't mean-- Wait: you thought I meant the whole crew was doomed. Or the mission was doomed. But I didn't. You see-- It's not like-- I mean, it's a family thing. My family is doomed. No-- not because of the sun dying, though yeah, I understand-- believe me, I understand-- how that could put a damper on things, the sun going out-- but, no, that's not it either.

See-- You won't see, will you? Whoever you are who isn't reading this-- you won't get to see--

Stop. Okay. Deep breaths, pal--

It's like this: The GUYS in my family are doomed. It's like a tradition, yeah? Couple of examples: five years or so back, my cousin-- he's working salvage at sea, right?-- he gets himself converted into a half-human, half-machine hybrid by a space virus that's infested an abandoned Russian research vessel--

Does that sound even a tenth as insane as I think it--

And this other cousin-- this sort of black sheep of the family-- he gets himself eaten by a sea monster during a jewel heist. Also at sea. On a gigantor luxury passenger liner that--

IT'S NOT OXYGEN NARCOSIS, I SWEAR TO GOD.

I'm not even gonna mention the great-granddad speared by a narwhal, or the uncle who got sucked under in a whirlpool-- in a lake, or the nephew on the receiving end of a clam attack. It's just that it makes it hard to focus sometime, yeah? This

FEELING OF IMPENDING DOOM

If it weren't for the idiots on this ship, I think I'd snap. The IQs? They're no help at all. Example:

Dr. Capa. Yesterday we're sharing lab time. I'm checking radiation levels; he's doing whatever it is he does with all those numbers, like numbers equal reality (wrong there, mate: sorry to clue you in), and I say, "We're doomed." I mean, I just said it. Didn't mean anything by it; the words were just there in my head and I said 'em out loud. Didn't mean a thing.

But Capa-- you'd've thought someone rewrote the Unified Theory on him. He hits me with this scowl-- wait, no: I _think_ he hit me with a scowl-- see, his face has two expressions: "pensive" and "more pensive," which makes him-- and holy hell, doesn't it?-- the man to beat on poker night, and he says, "What did you say?"

The good ship _Ominous_ pulls up to the dock. I say, "Nothing."

"You said, 'We're doomed,'" says Capa.

"No," say I, "I said '_We're_ doomed.'"

He looks confused. I think. "That's what I just said," he says.

"No, that's what _I_ just said."

"What?"

"What?"

"'We're doomed,'" he says.

"You're paranoid," I say.

But he's a clever man, our Dr. Capa. "'We're'-- who?"

"The royal 'we,'" I say. Nonchalantly. Y'know.

"_You're_ doomed, then." By this time, he's well into "more pensive" territory. His eyebrows are threatening to strangle each other.

"Yes."

He relaxes. His numbers are drawing him back. You can almost hear 'em calling to him from the pages of his notebook. "That seems fair," he says.

"Yep."

So I leave the lab-- I say something about having to check the seals on the airlock, and Capa-- by this time all those numbers are mumbling around in his head again, and he just nods, and on the way to the airlock I pass Harvey. The words are still in my brain, y'know, the ones I said in the lab, and so, just to see, I say 'em at Harvey: "We're doomed."

"Ha--!" says Harvey. "Hey, Searle: do you know how high 'up' is?"

"You mean in space?"

"Hell, yeah. Of course in space."

I shake my head. My head's already shaking; I just shake it a little harder. "Nope."

Harvey winks. "_I_ do."

And he strolls off. All that "dim" heading for the sun. Great big chunk of "dim." Dimmed, you might say.

Or doomed. But that's just me. Yeah.

* * *

**DEAR DIARY**

I have this one thing I've been thinking.

You know how on big space missions theres one guy that turns out to be the android? Everybody thinks its Capa. He's the android. Mace says we should see if his head unplugs and then we'd know. But I say Mace, maybe we shouldn't. Cause heres what I think

I think I'm the android. Cool huh?

Don't tell Mace okay?

HARVEY

* * *

**CAPTAIN'S LOG, STARDATE XXXX:**

I think I have made a mistake.

I have thought this for some time. To be precise: for exactly the length of our mission. An occurrence yesterday certified my suspicions. As follows:

At fourteen hundred hours Sunday from the command deck I looked at the screen representing the view from the forward observation cameras and asked: "Why is it yellow?"

Cassidy remained focused on her piloting. She detests my standing over her shoulder. Says nothing at volume, though I have heard her mutter "Backseat (bleep)ing driver" when she thinks I have left an effective auditory range.

Harvey, mistaking my question for musing, said, with the broad enthusiasm typical of his nearly hominid and sturdily browed self, "'Cause it's the _sun_, sir!"

Upon which Mace, in turn possibly mistaking Mr. Harvey's attempt at clarification for sarcasm, said: "Shut up, dork. The Captain's being philo-- phylosoph-- _deep_. Moron."

I said nothing. An observation regarding Mr. Mace: He sometimes growls at me. As the line between Mr. Mace's conscious and unconscious thought processes may be so fine as to be nonexistent, I try not to take offense. Possibly, in fortuitous anticipation of an utterance that may include a word of more than two syllables, he is merely ensuring that his vocal cords are free of obstruction.

Be that as it may. As regards yesterday's occurrence and its relationship to what I now know to be my mistake, a declaration:

I am on the wrong ship.

This is not the _Ikthyia_ bound for Neptune. Nor am I Captain Caneria. I admit my fault. Still, replacing the public address system at Launch Platform Nova with speakers more conducive to communication and less conducive to static might, in future, be a laudatory goal of our space administration. I have begun drafting a memo to that effect.

And I wish Captain Caneria the best of luck on his voyage to Neptune.

* * *

And... 

**My Journal,** by Trey

She walks in something like the

Is it "night"? I can't remember. I didn't bring the book, and it's not on file in the ship's library.

Another something at which I do not excel. Poetry comma memorization of. I should keep a list. But that would be masochistic, wouldn't it? If someone ever read this I'd

I'm not smart like Capa. I'm not handsome and reliable like Mace. Or passionate: Searle is passionate, about his work. About everything. I'm not. I could be loyal like Harvey or stoic and brave like Kaneda, but looking like I do would it make any difference?

She let me drive yesterday. Just for a minute. She had something she needed to do, away from the controls, something necessary, and she said, "Trey, sit here a minute, would you?"

So I did. I managed not to trip her as she got up. I managed not to stumble as I sat down. And then as she was away for those ninety seconds doing something certainly necessary I almost managed not to hit the

She said later it had no business being out this far. The satellite. The one I almost managed not to

It was very old, she said. She said other things too, at which I blushed. Not at me, no: at the satellite, and how it had no business, and how those who shoot junk into space ought to be sent out with garbage bags and pointy sticks to clean up once a (bleep)ing century or so. She even made a joke: "Next fifty thousand miles adopted by the Jupiter Elks," or something like that. But: the satellite. She said it was old, and that the scouring it had taken for all these years, the bombardment of dust and micro-particles and the tiniest of meteorites and heat and cold and radiation, all that had thinned its skin, and when it touched our shields it simply disintegrated. Just a touch and: gone. I know she's right. Still, I think

Someday we will be that satellite.

Mace made a joke. "Nice flying, dumbass!" But he smiled when he said it, and he and Harvey went to check the shields, and they said the shields were fine. And Kaneda wasn't angry. At me. More importantly, not at

Wait:

She walks in beauty like the night.

There. I remember.

**THE END**


End file.
